Lounge Act
by pedosmile
Summary: Hong Kong knows that he can't do something subtle because America, well, he was oblivious to subtlety and really didn't do subtle. -- America/HK for the fun of it.


**Lounge Act**

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Authors Note:** This was just a pairing I was playing around with. I don't see it much in fandom and, yet, Hong Kong and America share many things in common if you think about it. (: It was just for fun. This is rated M! for mature because there is sex in the end. Be warned. Also, this fic is set in the 90s. About 1993, to be exact. So that is why you will see knocks to grunge clothing, comics, the Crow, grunge music, and Nirvana! Haha.

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Even though he's been told millions of times that he can relax, that he's free to do what he likes, that he doesn't have anyone here who's going to freak out on him or anything like that, he still walks around quietly, is still on edge. It always takes a little bit for him to just "relax", to get into that feeling, because he's just not used to it. He's not used to not feeling wound up or tense, he's not used to how well Alfred treats him, to how Alfred just does random things with him, like taking him to the movies or playing video games with him, or taking him out to get food.

He asked once why Alfred was always pulling him out of Arthur's house, into his own country, his house, and Alfred just laughed and had replied, "_I know how terrible Arthur is. Trust me._"

Hong Kong just always stared before turning to look at something else, something new, because there was always something new and bright and eye-catching in Alfred's house whenever he came over.

He sits in the living room, on a bright red bean bag that Alfred had apparently just gotten a few days ago "just because" and was flipping through some Batman comic he had scooped up off the coffee table. He can remember looking through these in earlier times, like the fifties, before they had taken a dark and sardonic sort of tone. When they were still light and happy, just like America's people. And, of course, they were still happy, but they had changed, everyone has. It's just how it goes when nations grow older.

Just as he flipped a page in the comic, he hears music starting up, a guitar. He can hear the melody coming from some where in the house and, for a second, Hong Kong can remember how Arthur plays the guitar, too. But in private, in secret, because he doesn't want anyone to know that someone as serious and as civilized as him would play the guitar. That was for people like _Alfred_, for people who had no cares or worries and were entirely too lazy to do anything else.

But sometimes, late at night, Hong Kong can still hear it.

He tilts his head for a moment before standing up slowly, tossing the comic onto the bean bag and moving down the hallway, following the music. He can hear Alfred's voice, very soft and quiet, singing along to the melody and it was, surprisingly, decent sounding. Not that Hong Kong really had an ear for music, but he supposed that if he had ever heard this voice on the radio that he wouldn't turn it off because it was _awful_ or anything like that. It was low and somewhat gravely, like all the artists coming out of Alfred's country now, those _grunge_ artists. Like Kurt Cobain?

That was his name right?

Arthur always turned the radio off when he heard it, complaining about how America is just producing stupid noise now. That those lyrics don't even make sense and you can barely even understand half the singers anymore because all they do is mumble.

He peers into the room Alfred had dubbed the "study" even though there was nothing studious about it. On one wall were tall bookshelves holding millions upon millions of comics and figurines Alfred had collected, across from this wall were other bookshelves holding cassets and LPs and c.d.s, all of them ranging from country to pop to jazz to rock and even bands Hong Kong had never even heard of. There was a t.v. for the millions of movies Alfred had collected, a radio to play the music he owned, posters spread out every where. A couch here, a few bean bags there, weird looking lamps in the shape of a mushroom or lava lamps, all of them turned on and casting odd glows about Alfred's room.

In a way, it just showed how young and childish Alfred really was. How relaxed he really was. He was so different from the other nations, so independent and free, that Hong Kong secretly admired it.

He stands in the door way, just watching Alfred as he sinks into his lime green bean bag, fingers dancing over the chords of the guitar, singing quietly, "We passed upon the stairs, spoke of was and when, although I wasn't there he said I was his friend..." and Hong Kong just listens, his head pressed against the door way, watching the soft smile that crept upon America's face as he strummed, the way his blue eyes were just glowing.

"You're face to face with the man who sold the world."

He keeps playing, keeps singing, as if he doesn't notice Hong Kong, and for a moment it looks like he's thinking. He gets that distant look on his face, in his eyes, and the glow disappears for a few moment as he croons, "I must have died alone along long time ago. Who knows? Not me. I never lost control."

He pauses for just a moment and looks up, feeling Hong Kong's gaze at him, and the distant look, the forlorn look, just disappears and he smiles broadly, glowing again. It's an infectious sort of smile, one that just makes Hong Kong want to smile right back, so he offers a tiny sort of smile of his own and moves into the room.

"I didn't know you played guitar."

"I've been playing forever!" Alfred laughs, setting the guitar down against his bean bag, leaning forward.

"That's... a Nirvana song, right?"

"A cover. David Bowie originally sang it," the older nation corrects gently and Hong Kong just nods, saying softly, "Sometimes Arthur plays, too."

Alfred just wrinkled his nose, "Arthur can't play anything but noise. I've _heard_ his music before. It's now just finally getting decent after I sat him down and forced him to listen to some of my music."

Hong Kong just smirks and nods knowingly.

"He says your music is terrible," he moves toward another bean bag adjacent to Alfred and sits quietly. Alfred just sighed and rolled his eyes, leaning back.

"He would say that," he tsked. "Jesus, I mean, his punk movement almost _destroyed_ the rock generation. Have you heard that crap? Grunge is fine, it's _better_ than _punk_, I don't care what he says."

Hong Kong likes that Alfred can say whatever he wants about Arthur, that he can fight and speak his mind with Arthur, even over the most trivial things, too. Hong Kong does this, too, but not as much as Alfred because that _fear_ that was beaten into him so long ago still lingers. He still has to stop and _think _sometimes before he speaks his mind, before he says what he likes to Arthur, unlike Alfred, though.

That's the kind of freedom Hong Kong wants.

But he doesn't think he'll ever be free.

"Well, anyways, what's up? Are you bored?" Alfred perks and Hong Kong just shakes his head, staring down at the guitar for a moment or two before asking slowly, "Do you think... you could try to teach me to play?" he looks back to Alfred, face indifferent, although he's feeling anxious for even asking. He doesn't know why, though, it's not as if Alfred will blow him off or scold him for asking something so "stupid and ridiculous". No, instead Alfred just brightens again and scootches his bean bag close, bringing the guitar with him.

"Yeah, dude, of course!" he laughs. "It's kinda hard at first but you can get the hang of it once you learn the chords." he hands the instrument to Hong Kong and the younger nation takes it uncertainty before holding it like he had seen Alfred and the millions of other artists on t.v. He props it up on one thigh, fingers hovering over the frets and he sneaks a glance over at America as the older nation moves to adjust his hands.

He feels his stomach squirm anxiously when Alfred's fingers move his, when his other takes his wrist and holds it over the chords.

"Yeah, just like that," Alfred said with a soft smile, moving back. "Now strum."

So he strums.

"Right!" Alfred laughs and begins teaching him all the chords, which one does what, and what they sound like. Eventually, after Hong Kong could repeat them and play them back without Alfred's help, America was teaching the other nation a simple song.

"Nirvana has some simple tabs," he says, "because Kurt had to focus on singing _and_ playing, so I mean... I guess it's difficult to focus on too much." Hong Kong just nods, his stomach clenching slightly when he feels Alfred lean against him, wrap one arm around him to place his hands on the right frets, the other one showing him which chords to strum. He stares down at the guitar for a moment, the sudden thought of not wanting Alfred to pull away making him blush slightly.

He hadn't blushed in a very long time.

He just doesn't blush.

He doesn't get these weird butterflies, either.

It was just that Alfred made him feel different. Alfred made him feel more relaxed and at ease, more free, happier and better. It was so cliche that it almost made Hong Kong want to gag, made him want to roll his eyes and wonder, _"What is this? Some stupid romance novel?"_ but he doesn't. Instead he just leans back a little bit and looks up at Alfred, watching him go on and on about the song and why it was written and how he was going to pick up a few c.d.'s for Hong Kong before he went home.

And then Hong Kong says quietly, "I don't want to go." it was the first time he had ever said something like this aloud. He had always thought it, though, whenever he had to leave from Alfred's house, whenever he saw Arthur waiting for him at the airport or on Alfred's front step. But it never crossed his face, never showed in his eyes, and he had most definitely never _ever_ spoken it out loud because, for some reason, it felt too intimate for him.

It felt like he was sharing some deep, private secret.

He was never this open with people, either.

Alfred looks down at him and Hong Kong looks up, head nearly pressed back against the older nation's chest, and America just blinks, a sad sort of smile playing across his lips. And Hong Kong can see it in his eyes, the apology, because Alfred's blue eyes always gave himself away. He was so easy to read already, but his eyes _always_ gave him away when his face wouldn't.

"Yeah, I know," he kinda laughs, a shaky sort of laugh, and rubs the back of his head. "I wish I could help you, HK, really... I know how much it sucks being with Arthur sometimes...." he trails off when Hong Kong looks away. The younger nation's grip on the guitar tightens slightly and he just stares at the t.v. in the room, at their dark reflection. America is still looking down at him and he's just staring very intently on their reflection, feeling that sulky sort of air starting to build around them.

"Hey!" Alfred frowns, moving his arms away from Hong Kong (no don't do that, he likes that feeling of security, he _never_ gets it anymore) and moves beside him, trying to peer into his face. His eyes are eager. He always hates to displease.

"Aw, Hong Kong, c'mon," he juts out his lower lip as he pokes at the other nation's shoulder gently, his frown deepening ever so slightly. Hong Kong glances over and he can see it on Alfred's face that he doesn't want the younger nation to be upset, he sees it in his eyes that he's sorry. "It'll be alright, you know? You can come over here as much as you want, I told you that before."

"I know," Hong Kong sighs, sinking down a little in the bean bag, setting the guitar aside. Alfred sits back in his, chin resting in both palm of his hands as he looks at Hong Kong, his eyes bright and full of life. America was always so full of life, no matter what was happening, no matter what he was doing. He was just always so enthusiastic, so full of energy, so different from all the other nations that Hong Kong almost _envied_ it. He envied how Alfred brushed everything the nations did and said to him off, how he seemed to not care, how he would go on and do whatever he liked because he was just _that_ independent.

"So, what do you wanna do now? Give up on the guitar already?" the older nation's tone was teasing and Hong Kong just rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he says, "I'm not giving up, I'm just bored."

Alfred just blinks. He never got bored at his house, even when he was alone. He _always_ had something to do, always had some way of entertaining himself. But, sometimes, he does get lonely, sometimes he does need people, sometimes he needs to go somewhere, see something knew. He thrived on that, he thrived on being with others, making them laugh and smile. He liked it when they did that because it gave him some sort of satisfaction to know that _he_ was the one doing that. That _he_ was the one who could make them smile like that. It let him know that he hadn't messed up with the things he had done in the past... With his mistakes (he never, _ever_ admits to them being mistakes, however) that he still muses over, still regrets.

"What do you wanna do then?" he asks as he pushes himself to his feet. "We could watch a movie or something. Or even go out to the theaters if you want. There's a place, like, a block from here that we could walk to." he moves his hands as he speaks, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the theater before he shoved them into his pockets. Hong Kong just nods, standing up slowly.

"Sure," he replies, not seeming interested nor disinterested. "I'd... like to change though, if that's alright. I look too formal." his nose wrinkles as he gestures down toward his clothes, the ones Arthur had picked out for him. "Do you have anything I could borrow...?"

Alfred just nods, saying, "Yeah, of course, follow me!" and he moves out of the room, Hong Kong at his heels. After picking out a pair of loose pants with a few rips which he has to cuff just so he wouldn't drag and has to secure with a belt and some baggy white shirt with some band logo on it, he and Alfred begin their trek toward the movie theater. It's nearly night, the city is alive with energy, with people, and Alfred is just as alive. He's buzzing with that entrancing sort of energy as he talks and laughs with Hong Kong, making passing jokes here and there, saying hello to the people they passed on the streets.

"You really do love your nation," Hong Kong muses aloud and Alfred grins down at him.

"I do," there is no doubt, no hesitation.

Hong Kong wonders if other nations were like this, if they were full of this energy and excitement and happiness and love. If they would walk down the streets and just greet the people of their country, if they would stop and talk with them like Alfred would, no matter race or gender or age. And they always seemed to talk back to him, as if they felt that same compelling urge like Hong Kong did.

When they arrive at the theater, they both opt for some action movie instead of some horror flick, which surprised Hong Kong. Alfred and he were always watching horror movies, all though Hong Kong was never scared of them like Alfred was. Alfred would always jump and talk right back at the screen, telling characters things that they couldn't possibly hear or know and things they should or shouldn't be doing, like "_Don't follow him!_" or "_Nooo, nooo! What are you doing?!_" And Hong Kong would always just watch and listen with amusement.

They sit in the back, their row completely empty, Alfred sucking on his soda and handing Hong Kong the pop corn. This particular movie wasn't very packed, there were perhaps a dozen or two dozen people scattered about in the empty rows of chairs, Hong Kong barely even seeing their outline in the dim lighting. The trailers were just starting and he watches as Alfred whispers about how he wanted to see that movie or how that one looked dumb. And then he was quiet as the opening credits rolled, taking a handful of popcorn and eating it quietly, eyes glued to the screen.

Hong Kong isn't very impressed.

He just settles back in his chair, liking how dark it was in the theater, liking that the movie was just as equally as dark. Alfred leaned over, whispering softly, "This is based off a comic, you know. It's really good, I have it home. You should totally read it."

He was as much of a nerd over comics as Kiku was, Hong Kong noted. But he appreciated it all the same.

"Okay..." he just nods and then listens as Alfred whispers about how the main actor, Brandon Lee, was the son of Bruce Lee and that he died on set during the last few weeks of filming. Hong Kong found it funny that a big actor in his nation had just as much impact on Alfred's nation...

"He was shot with a dummy bullet..." Alfred nods, looking back at the screen and taking another drink of his soda. "It's weird, people are saying the Chinese mafia killed him or something because there was that rumor surrounding his father's death or something. You know that though, right?" he flashes a smile at Hong Kong, who just nods.

Hong Kong hates talking about China or anything to do with that nation. He hates talking about his brother because he hates the memories that would come with it, the anger and the pain and the bitterness. And he's still so bitter over it, even if he hides it well.

"Yeah. It's still weird, though," is all the younger nation says, focusing on the screen and Alfred just nods, giving a "_mmhm!_" before lapsing back into a silence as his attention was drawn back to the movie.

Hong Kong isn't really focusing on the film, however. He's more so fixed on Alfred, on the way the light from the screen edges his profile bright, the way he's so attentive, so focused on the screen. His brows are even knitted slightly over his blue, blue eyes, the ones that were blue like the Midwestern skies Hong Kong had been exposed to. They weren't gray or muddy like England's skies constantly were, they were beautiful and clear of clouds and open and wide. Out there was where America had taken him once, out there was where Hong Kong could breathe and experience that glimmer of freedom that Alfred could indulge in any time he liked.

He's getting those butterflies again, the ones that made his heart skip a beat or two, that made him want to scoot a little closer to Alfred, to do something stupid. And so he does move closer to Alfred, he decides that he _is_ going to do something stupid. He decides that he kind of wants Alfred. Just once. Just once and he'll be content.

It's a really odd thought. He's always been attracted to everything that America, the nation, was about, but he never really thought that he was attracted to Alfred himself. And yet it made sense, didn't?

But he doesn't know if Alfred is attracted to him, if Alfred would reject him or not. And Hong Kong knows that he can't do something _subtle_ because America, well, he was oblivious to _subtlety_ and really didn't _do_ subtle. And, so, that meant that whatever he did, it couldn't _subtly_ be rejected. Which just scares him slightly, it makes him even more anxious, because he hates being rejected, it's something he's dealt with entirely too much. Yet, he's more enthused now, he's more curious to try and test and see what Alfred will do because he always liked a challenge.

He shifts closer, leaning against Alfred, and pulling the older nation's face away from the screen and toward him.

"HK, wha-?" the older nation looks confused but he doesn't get much of a chance to speak before Hong Kong is kissing him. The younger nation can feel when the other stiffens with surprise, can nearly feel him wanting to pull away but he doesn't. Instead he just leans into the kiss slowly, lips pressing against Hong Kong's hesitantly, as if he wasn't sure what he should do.

"You can kiss back," Hong Kong mumbled against his lips, hands sliding away from Alfred's face, tracing along his jaw bone curiously for a moment or two before he wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Alfred just blinks, brows knitted slightly, before the look of confusion is washed away and he just smiles gently at Hong Kong, lips catching his in another kiss. It was more forward this time, much harder, filled with a new sort of intent. America was no longer hesitant or confused, he was aware and Hong Kong likes this. He just kisses back eagerly, his tongue brushing over Alfred's lightly, curiously as he pulls the other nation closer.

He catches that familiar scent of the leather jacket, the one Alfred was _always_ sporting, and some other scent mingled with it. Something sharp, spicy, something like cologne but as far as Hong Kong was aware Alfred didn't _wear_ cologne.

He presses his lips against Alfred's harder, more needy, his fingers slipping that leather jacket off and trailing down his shoulders, his back. He can feel the muscles of Alfred's back strain against his shirt as the other nation, literally, leans over the younger boy and he smiles when Alfred plants kisses all down his jaw line, his neck, sweet little kisses filled with just as much need. Hong Kong feels the cup holder digging into his stomach as he tries to edge himself closer and he pushes it up and out of the way, leaving them both room to move now. But before he can climb onto Alfred's lap, America is pushing him down against the little make-shift couch of chairs, crawling on top of him. Hong Kong curls his legs up as Alfred settles between them, as Alfred pushes the other nations shirt up toward his chest, his lips ghosting over his stomach, his hip bones and Hong Kong just squirms as he feels himself growing hotter, growing more and more needy.

He presses his hips up against one of Alfred's legs, digging himself against it, making a small little noise when he feels his belt being pulled away and Alfred's warm fingers slipping past the waist band of his pants and pulling them down a little. He's still slightly aware of the movie still happening in the back ground, the noise of gun shots thrumming through his now too sensitive body. He shudders when Alfred takes a hold of him, fingers grasping the base firmly, thumb running over the tip and he just mewls a soft moan, back arching and pushing himself further into Alfred's hand.

He feels the other nation moving his hand, slowly at first, a torturous pace, and Hong Kong just presses himself closer, insistent. He's trying to keep his breathing steady, trying to keep his pants and moans soft and quiet. He's aware of how easily they could be exposed, of how anyone could just turn around to stare or walk past them on their way to leave and _see_ what they were doing. And for some reason this turns him on more, it makes him begin to tremble and to harden beneath Alfred's steadily moving hand.

He hadn't even noticed he had squeezed his eyes shut until he found himself looking at Alfred, focusing on the older nations face as America leans over him. He can feel that his face is flushed with pleasure and yet he doesn't care, he doesn't care that he seems so exposed.

Reaching up, Hong Kong tugs Alfred's glasses off, his hands running along his cheeks, close to the other nation's lips. And Alfred just kisses at Hong Kong's thumb lightly, smiling when Hong Kong pulls away and sets the glasses down on the floor. He likes that he can see Alfred's eyes more clearly, he likes how much _younger_ Alfred looks without them.

He wraps his arms around Alfred's shoulders again, his breath coming out in soft, breathy sort of moans, and he just kind of _begs_ Alfred. There's a small whining note to his voice, something he's not used to and _please please just do it_. And America laughs a little under his breath, the noise equally as strained, and he pulls his hand away from Hong Kong, unbuttoning his pants which were just a little _too_ tight and pulling them down. He leans back over the younger nation, hands on either side of Hong Kong's shoulders as he positions himself, looking down at him.

And Hong Kong just pulls his face down greedily toward his, lips mashing against his greedily, and he moans into Alfred's mouth when he feels America pushing into him. He shudders against him with pleasure, rocks his hips forward when Alfred pushes forward, too. He bites at Alfred's lips, drags his hands down the older nations back and slipping them under his shirt only to rake them up against Alfred's balmy skin again. And Alfred just lets out a quiet, very quiet moan, his movements growing more faster.

Hong Kong likes this, he likes that he's making Alfred moan, he likes that Alfred is making _him_ moan.

He presses his lips against the underside of Alfred's chin, that soft and sensitive skin and he _bites_ at it, in fact Hong Kong is leaving a trail of harsh bites all the way down Alfred's neck, liking when he feels the older nation's muscles tense, liking when Alfred groans gently, the noise breathy and quiet and strained. And they're still both aware of the people surrounding them, of how someone on screen was talking about revenge and the loud _bang_ that Hong Kong just feels rattle through his body. He feels that white hot surge of intoxicating fervor shoot through him, too, and he pushes himself closer to Alfred, who's movements were becoming harsher, more jerky.

And Alfred just pushes closer, too, leans down and Hong Kong nearly cries out when he feels himself brush against Alfred's stomach, entirely too sensitive but he doesn't care. His mind is blurring with the pleasure, especially when he feels Alfred's hand wrap around him again and he has to bite his lip against the gasping-moans. He breathes hard through his nose, jerking his hips up toward Alfred's hands, his body moving on it's own accord toward the pleasure. He feels his stomach clenching, he's trying not to cry out, and Alfred is pushing into him hard, harder, and his muscles are clamping down around the older nation out of reflex.

Alfred bites back a groan and Hong Kong squirms, trying to hold back the flood of pleasure that is leaving him breathless and trembling but he feels the release and hears America give another sort of breathy chuckle. He shudders, hard, when he feels Alfred trail a finger up his length, wiping away his "mess".

And then he moves his hands down toward Hong Kong's hips, gripping them tightly, nails digging into his skin as he jerks the nation closer to him. Hong Kong shivers against him and bites into the sleeve of Alfred's jacket to help swallow back his groans. He's gone beyond his peak of pleasure and he just arches his back as Alfred rocks into him, once, twice, and then they both shudder when Alfred has his own release, hot and searing and Hong Kong just squeezes his eyes shut and gives a groan of pleasure, his voice a pitch or two higher.

They're both left panting, Alfred having pulled himself out and laying against Hong Kong, his head pressed into the other nations chest as he tries to calm his breathing. There's more gun shots, more cries and yells from the actors on the screen and Hong Kong is kind of _glad_ Alfred decided to pick a _loud_ movie to watch. The younger nation just stares up at the ceiling, catching his own breath, when he feels Alfred shift and rest his chin on his chest.

"We should probably get dressed..." he grins sheepishly, his voice soft and still not _quite_ that even. Hong Kong just nods, squirming out from under Alfred and pulling up his pants, pulling on his belt, as Alfred did.

"Let's leave," the younger nation doesn't have an interest in this movie any more, he wants to go somewhere else, somewhere more private and Alfred just grins again, pulling on his jacket as they left the theater.


End file.
